Death by Chocolate
by Beuller
Summary: July is national ice cream month. My contribution.


Death By Chocolate

Disclaimer: Does anyone ever really own anyone else?

Spoilers: None

Summary: July is national ice cream month. Herein lies by Ode.

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There were kittens. Lots of them—white ones, black ones, striped ones, ones with polka dots. Some were even plaid. Sara giggled at the feeling of their soft little paws scampering across her feet. One of the kittens with wings lit upon her open palm. He looked at Sara sleepily, gave a deep yawn, curled up and began purring. purrr…Purrr…PUrr…PURR…

Sara's eyes popped open, 'I don't have a cat.' Sitting up, she quickly discovered that the purring kitten was actually her cell phone vibrating frantically in her hand.

Bringing the sleep saboteur to her ear, she answered, "Sidle," voice husky from sleep.

"Sara, it's Grissom. Listen, I realize you just closed the Mendelson murder this afternoon, but I've got bugs."

"You called me because you need to be deloused?" Sara responded dryly—a tired Sara was a grumpy Sara.

The Mendelson murder had been exhausting. The elderly victim, Caron Mendelson, was none too popular with the residents of her retirement home. The inhabitants of "Miami," an overly flashy assisted living community all had stories to tell about Mendelson. Worse—the community's director, an average looking red haired man with a God complex and a thing for pulling his sunglasses on and off in a dramatic fashion did everything in his power to not cooperate.

Because Mendelson was an old friend of the Mayor's, the case was high profile. A week of pulling doubles and dealing with geriatric evidence had left Sara tapped. In the end, the whole thing was a plot by about 20 of Miami's residents. It seems Mendelson interceded in the relationship of a well-loved couple and the dearth of excitement around the place made the elderly group just bored enough to plot and execute a murder. Rumor had it that the Miami's executive director was next.

Grissom chuckled, "I'm sorry—no, I am at a crime scene with Greg, but I have to leave. Guy walking his dog came upon a DB over in Petersen Park."

"And now you have bugs."

"Yeah. I know you have the night off, and based on the hours on your timesheet for the last week, I'm not even sure if it's safe to ask you to come in. But I don't have a choice. Everyone else is in the field and Greg doesn't have enough solves to go solo. We're halfway through processing, let him take the lead and you can just be a warm body."

"Gee, Grissom you have such a way with words."

Grissom cringed at the phone. She wasn't going to make this easy and he really didn't blame her for it.

"I'll make it up to you."

Pulling the phone away from her ear to make sure she wasn't still dreaming, Sara's mouth opened and closed wordlessly several times.

"Sara? Sara?" came Grissom's tinny voice from the distant cell phone.

Unable to form complete sentences, she managed to croak out an inelegant, "Uh huh."

"Good. A uniform is already on the way to pick you up."

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Stepping under the yellow police crime tape, Sara could smell waffle cones and chocolate mixed with and paper napkins and cold. The smell was nostalgic and conjured up images of days at the beach and birthday parties.

"Is nothing sacred?" she asked no one in particular glancing around the darkened ice cream parlor. The small dining area was orderly enough. Plastic tables and chairs in improbably bright colors lined the walls. A drinking fountain resided in one corner. 'What is it about eating ice cream that makes you thirsty for cold water?' She wondered idly. Acrylic encased ice cream freezers created the partition between customer and proprietor.

Sara followed Greg's voice into the back of the store. She found him finishing up a series of photos of the body.

"Hey good lookin' what you got cookin?'" he asked, glancing up from the body.

"Hello CSI Sanders. Would you like to introduce me to your, uhm, cool friend?"

Waving her closer, Greg brought Sara up to date in his best Crocodile Hunter voice. "This may be the first and only occurrence of a human Eskimo pie." Taking a closer look, Sara had to agree that the victim did appear to be chocolate coated from the neck up.

"Vic was found in the freezer by the cleaning crew. David estimates he was in there a little less than four hours. Store closes at 9:00, cleaning crew comes in around 2:00 so it must have gone down shortly after closing."

"Suicide?"

Greg rolled the body so she could see the victim's hands and the tape binding that held them together at the wrist. "Not unless he bound himself first. Here's the weird thing though—other than being dead, covered brown stuff and really chilly, the guy doesn't seem to have a scratch on him."

"Autopsy will tell us." Sara cocked her head, trying to make out the features on the deceased's face. "Do we know who he is?"

"We think he's the owner. The schedule in the office over there said he was the only one in the store from about 8:00 PM on. We'll know more when he's a little, um, cleaner."

"What else you got?"

"Obviously whatever happened didn't go on out front—and there is no sign of a break-in. So either the person entered before the place closed or the vic. knew his attacker. Back here, it's a different story." Greg gestured around the small back room.

The place was trashed. Empty boxes of cups and cones were strewn everywhere. Bags of toppings lay half filled—the countertops and the floor were covered in colored sprinkles, crumbled cookies and gummy bears—all congealing in what smelled like caramel and chocolate syrup.

"Either a band of chimpanzees held a birthday party back here or someone was looking for something." Sara mused.

"Ya think?"

"Greg, I'm tired and not feeling like the sharpest tool in the shed, give me something to do."

"I love it when a woman puts me in charge. You wanna' start processing? I'll finish up here with Senor Klondike and join you."

After nearly two hours of collecting and cataloging what Sara estimated to be every sticky, sugary confection known to man, Sara hit pay dirt.

"Hey Greg—look what I've got." Coming up behind Sara, Greg could see that her arms were submerged to the elbows in a twenty pound bag of chocolate sprinkles. Leaning in over her shoulder, he spied the object of desire.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"If it walks like a duck..."

"Sara my dear, you've got Charlie in your Jimmies."

"The question is, if this got missed, how much was got?"

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Sara and Greg stood shoulder to shoulder. Below them on the autopsy table lay the now identified Joseph Moonves. He was significantly cleaner than the last time they'd seen him and he now bore the tail-tell stitches and Y-incision of a recently completed autopsy.

"So Doc., care to do the honors on our Eskimo Pie Guy?"

"Well Greg, this is a new one. He drowned."

Both CSIs looked up in surprised.

"I found significant amounts of the brown stuff in his lungs. He aspirated it—which means he was still alive when he encountered it. Bruising around the neck indicates that he was held down." By way of illustration, the coroner grasped Moonves's neck with his thumbs touching at the base near the spine and gentle pushed.

"So you think the guy was submerged in what we are pretty sure is chocolate syrup?" Greg posited.

"I'm not a CSI, but it does give a new meaning to the phrase: Death by Chocolate."

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Sara joined Grissom and Greg in the break room to review the status the Caruso murder—or, as Greg was calling it, "The Great Cone Caper."

"I just came from Hodges. He confirms that the brown stuff was, in fact, chocolate syrup. Hershey's to be exact. He also confirmed that the substance we found in the chocolate sprinkles is crack cocaine."

Greg added his own information. "Brass looked into Moonves's background. Couple counts of possession and a strongly suspected, but not confirmed tie to a drug cartel South of the Border." Gesturing to Sara, he continued, "We're pretty sure the ice cream parlor was just a front. We're also thinking that Caruso was smuggling the stuff across the border in bags of ice cream toppings. Not super high-tech—but also not super suspect."

"What we don't know", finished Sara, "is who killed Caruso and took the stash. After this, we have a couple of interviews with known associates."

Grissom nodded in approval. "Good job you two."

Assuming the conversation was over Sara and Greg began readying themselves to go when Grissom continued, "You know, there is documentation that ice cream was eaten as early as second century B.C. References have been made to both Alexander the Great and Nero Claudius Caesar enjoying a concoction of ice, honey and juice as a means of plying potential female conquests."

Taking advantage of Grissom's rare levity, Greg jumped in, "My cousin worked at Baskin Robbins when we were in high school. He and his buddies constructed an entire set of rules about what a person's ice cream choice says about personality. Me, I'm a mint chocolate chip kind of guy—all American, fun with a little edge and irresistible. Grissom what's your favorite?"

"French vanilla."

"Ahhh, you're a purist. Not surprising. Sara?"

Before Sara could answer, her cell phone chirped. Listening to the caller she finished gathering her things and motioned for Greg to do the same. Hanging up the phone, she beamed, "PD just stopped a couple of guys on a routine traffic violation. Guess what they found in the trunk?"

"Is it sweet and a perfect complement to whipped cream and a cherry."

"Let's go, Brass has them waiting for us down at the station."

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Near the end of shift Sara knocked on the doorframe of Grissoms office. Looking up, he found Sara leaning in his doorframe, file folder held aloft. "The Moonves case is officially on ice. His colleagues got a greedy and decided they didn't want to share their sundaes any longer. Wasn't it Voltaire who said something about the only thing keeping ice cream from being an exquisite substance was the fact that it isn't illegal?"

Grissom motioned for her to come in, "Leave it up to the criminal element of Las Vegas to ruin that one. Shut the door for me will you and have a seat."

Sara hoped Grissom didn't seem the surprise she felt as she did as he had asked and settled herself into one of the chairs facing his desk.

Glancing through the file briefly, Grissom addressed Sara, "So, did this case extinguish your taste for ice cream?"

"Huh?"

He shrugged, "The pig turned you off meat. Did Eskimo Pie Guy turn you off of ice cream?"

"Grissom, some loves run deeper than flesh."

"I'll take that as a no. In that case, this is for you. For the other night."

He handed her a white envelope. Across the front in Grissom's neat block print was the word 'Pistachio.'

Sara smiled. "My favorite—but I didn't answer Greg's question"

Grissom smirked back in mock innocence. "It's my job to know. Open it."

Breaking the seal, Sara extracted a rather thick bundle. Sorting through it she found gift certificates to what appeared to be every ice cream joint in Las Vegas. Nestled among the certificates was a plain white sheet. Pulling it from the pack, Sara recognized Grissom's characteristic penmanship once again. He'd written,

_"We dare not trust our __wit__ for making our house pleasant to our friend, so we buy ice cream."  
Ralph Waldo Emerson_

Sara felt cheeks pinken and meeting Grissom's couldn't stop a giggle from escaping. If ice cream worked for Alexander the Great, why not Grissom?

Getting up to leave, Sara held up the gift. "As much as I love ice cream, I am not one to lick alone. Care to join me."

Pulling his coat of the back of his chair, Grissom stood, "I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
